GIFT  OF 

SEELEY  W.  MUDD 

and 

GEORGE  I.  COCHRAN     MEYER  ELSASSER 
DR.  JOHN  R.  HAYNES    WILLIAM  L.  HONNOLD 
JAMES  R.  MARTIN         MRS.  JOSEPH  F.SARTORI 

/•  the 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SOUTHERN  BRANCH 


JOHN  FISKE 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped 


SOUTHERN  BRANOx 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNU 
LIBRARY, 

<LOS  ANQELEa  CAUK 


T    C-^ 


ST.  KOCH'S   CHAPEL. 


A  Christmas  Masque  of  Saint  Roch 
Pere  Dagobert 

and 

Throwing  the  Wanga 


M.  E.  M.  DAVIS 

Author  of  "Under  the  Man-Fig,"  "In  War  Times,"  "At  La 
Rose  Blanche,"  "Minding  the  Gap,"  Etc. 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLLRG  AND   COMPANY 
1896 


5543 


COrVKIGHT 

BY  M.  E.  M.  DAVIS 

1896 


-PS 
\s\*\ 

OLffe 


, 

CONTENTS. 

.  PAGE. 

A  Christmas  Masque  ol  Saint  Roch        .  .  9 

Pcre  Dagobert    .  .  .  .  .  .          37 

Throwing  the  Wanga  ....          47 


CC 
O3 

a 

H 

<D 
^ 
02 
•H 


The  Author  is  indebted  to  Messrs.  Harper 
and  Brothers  for  permission  to  republish  PERE 
DAGOBERT  nnd  THROWING  THE  WANGA  in  this 
volume. 

A  CHRISTMAS  MASQUE  OF  SAINT  ROCH 
appears  here  in  print  for  the  first  time. 


A  CHRISTMAS  MASQUE  OF 
SAINT  ROCH. 


ST.  KOCH'S   CHAPEL. 


A  CHRISTMAS    MASQUE   OF  ST. 
ROCH.* 

A  small  Gothic  Chapel  set  in  the  midst  of  a 
burying  ground,  on  the  outskirts  of  a  city. 

I. 

AT    DAWN. 

The  Bell,  from  an  ivied  niche  beneath  the  sur 
mounting  cross  of  the  facade : 

Christ  is  born,  is  born! 
And  o'er  the  teeming  City  yonder,  lo 
A  star  —  the  foretorch  of  the  slumbering  sun  — 
Shines  palely  bright!     And  guided  by  its  rays, 
A  thousand  little  feet  go  pattering,  bare 
And  white  across  the  floors.     And  mother-eyes 
A-watch,  brim  o'er  with  happy  tears 
Because  The  Child  at   Bethlehem  is  born! 


*See  "Notes,''  page  ?7. 


A   CHRISTMAS   MASQUE   OF   ST.  ROCH. 

Chorus  of  Dead  People : 

But  we,  with  stone  and  sod  upon  our  breasts? 
But  we,  sealed  in  these  narrow  niches  ?     We, 
Shut  in  these  stately  vaults  ? — 

Semi-  Chorus  of  Dead  Children  : 

Our  baby- feet 
Are  wrapped  in  cere-cloths,  so  we  cannot  walk! 

Semi-  Chorus  of  Dead  People : 
Our  eyes  beneath  our  coffin-lids  are  dry! 
We  have  forgot  the  happy  tears  we  shed 
(Or  ere  we  died)  because  The  Child  was  born! 

Chorus : 

Ah  we,  with  these  great  stones  upon  our  breasts! 
The  effigy  of  St.  Roch   above  the  altar  in  the 
Chapel. 

Christ  is  born,  is  born! 

(Dreamily)  I  mind  me  of  the  skies  in  Languedoc. 
How  blue  they  were  at  Noel-tide!     And  I  — 
A  little  lad  marked  by  His  cross  from  birth  — 
10 


A   CHRISTMAS   MASQUE   OF   ST.  ROCH. 

(But  heeding  naught  of  that!)  so  danced  and 

sang 

Along  those  old  Montpelian  streets,  that  maids 
With  golden  hair  came  out  to  see ! 

And  then, 

The  Gift  upon  me  came,  by  God,  His  grace, 
And  I  did  heal  men  of  the  plague. 

So  sirs, 

By  God,  His  grace,  the  painters  painted  me 
Upon  their  church-walls — Guido,  and  Rubens, 
And  Titian ;    so,  on  window-panes  in  gold 
And  red  I  stand,  and  with  me  my  good  dog! 
—Nay,  God    have  mercy  lest  I  praise  myself ! 
Lord,  heal  the  sick  and  ease  the  broken  heart L 


A   CHRISTMAS   MASQUE   OF   ST.  ROCH. 


II. 

MID-MORN.  AT    THE    GATE. 

Alphonse,  the  sexton,  a  grey-bearded  man,  sits 
on  a  rude  bench  by  the  gateway.  A  small  table 
before  him  is  heaped  with  tallow-candles  and  tin 
candle-sticks.  Many  people  entering  and  passing 
on  to  the  Chapel.  Beggars  and  children  crowded 
about  the  entrance. 

The  Sexton,  to  himself: 

Christ's  mercy,  what  a  sunny  day!  My  wil 
low-trees  rejoice  as  if  'twere  spring.  Candles, 
M'sieu  ?  (to  a  cynic  who  pauses  at  the  gate.} 

Cynic  : 
Candles !     What  should  I  do  with  candles ! 

Sexton  : 

I  beg  your  pardon,  M'sieu;  I  thought  —  St. 
Roch  — 


A   CHRISTMAS   MASQUE   OF   ST.  ROCH. 

Cynic  : 

'Tis  not  your  business,  man,  to  think.  Stick 
to  your  trade  of  turning  people  under  ground  ; 
and  let  your  wooden  Saint  in  yonder  Chapel 
mind  his  —  of  getting  husbands  for  a  pack  of 
silly  girls  to  flatter,  to  deceive,  aye,  and  to  wring 
their  hearts  —  if  such  lack-witted,  blubbering 
slaves  dwell  in  their  vapid  breasts !  (fie  passes 
within  the  gateway.} 

A   mother  with  two  children,  one  a  cripple  in 
her  arms: 

Give  me  some  candles,  sexton,  quick.  They 
should  have  burned  an  inch  or  more  ere  now! 

Sexton  : 
How  many,  Madame  ? 

The  Mother: 

My  little  Lame-foot  here  is  six  years  old 
today.  A  Christmas-gift  he  was  to  us !  So, 
six  small  flames  about  the  altar's  base  shall 
burn  for  him. 

13 


A  CHRISTMAS   MASQUE   OF   ST.  ROCH. 

The  Cripple: 

And  when  they've  burned,  dear  mother,  will 
I  walk  ?  ' 

The  Mother: 

Yes,  truly,  if  we  pray  aright,  rny  child. 

The  Other  Child: 

Oh,  let  us  hurry  on  to  pray  !  I  long  to  see 
rny  brother  run.  Then  he  can  catch  the  butter 
flies  which  tease  me  so,  and  flutter  high  above 
my  reach.  (They  pass  on.) 

A  Blind  Man,  led: 

I'll  burn  no  candles  for  the  Saint  this  day! 
If  he  can't  cure  me  for  the  one  1  gave  last 
year,  why  let  him  beat  his  dog,  I  say,  and 
send  him  forth  to  beg.  He'll  never  cheat  me 
of  another  cent.  (He  passes  on.) 

A  Child,  shouting: 

Sand!  Sand!  Here's  your  nice  white  sand 
to  strew  upon  your  graves !  Who'll  buy  fresh 
sand  ? 

14 


A   CHRISTMAS    MASQUE   OF   ST.  ROCH. 

A  Beggar-woman,  to  passers-by,  whining  : 
Charite  !     Charite,  s'il  vous  plait  ! 

A  One-legged  Negro  Man,  to  passers-by,  in   a 

wheedling  voice: 

I  knows  my  pretty  young  Mistiss  is  gvvine  ter 
give  me  a  nickel  !  .  .  .  I  knows  my  fine 
young  genterrnan  is  gvvine  ter  give  dis  po'  ole 
nigger  a  dime  !  .  .  .  Fo'  de  Lawd,  Marse, 
I'se  got  sebenteen  chillen  an'  gran'  chillen  at 
home,  wi'  dey  mouf  sot  fer  Chrismus  dinner ! 

Denise  Durand,  a  Young  Girl : 

Yes,  give  me  ten  candles,  Alphonse.  (She 
passes  on,  murmuring:)  Five  candles  for  myself 
—  that  I  may  win  him  back  again  ;  and  five  for 
him — that  he  may  surfer  none,  nor  know  no 
ill  of  any  kind.  .  .  No,  eight  for  him,  and 
two  for  me.  .  .  Nay,  all  for  him !  So  he  may 
walk  in  sunshine,  though  I  brave  the  storm  ! 

A  Ragged  Little  Girl,  gazing  after  her  : 
My !     Ain't  she  sweet !     I'm  her  ! 
15 


A   CHRISTMAS   MASQUE   OF   ST.  ROCH. 

Second  Ragged  Little  Girl,  who  carries  a  baby 
sister  in  her  arms: 

Mais  non  !     Since  one  year,  me,  I  'ave  choose 
Ma'mselle  Denise.     She's  me  ! 

First  Ragged  Little  Girl  : 
You  sha'n't  have  her  !     She's  me  ! 

Second  Ragged  Little  Girl: 
Mais  non  !     I'm  'er  !     I'm  'er  ! 

A  Man  with  a  child's  coffin  in  his  arms : 
Where  shall  I  put  this  little  scrap?     It  barely 
lived    to    draw    one    breath.      'Tis    not    much 
matter  where  it  lies. 

Sexton;  they  speak  in  French: 

Nay,  lad,  the  veriest  sparrow  hath  a  value  in 

His   eyes!      Yonder,    in     the     clover-bed,     in 

shadow  of  a  flying  buttress  of  the  Chapel,  where 

the  wind  is  never  rough, —  go  dig  a  nest  there 

for  the   little  thing.      Perchance  some   mother 

buried  near  may  hear  it  if  it  wake  and  cry  at 

16 


A  CHRISTMAS   MASQUE   OF   ST.  ROCH. 

night,  and  so  will    rise  and  comfort  it.     (The 
man  passes  on.} 

Gordon  Leslie,  a  Young  Man  : 
Is  this  the  chapel    called   St.  Roch  ?     where 
folks  are  wont  to  come  to  pray  ? 

Sexton  : 
Yes,  M'sieu. 

Leslie  : 

Ah  — oh  —  'tis  a  custom  here,  I'm  told,  to 
burn  some  candles  when  one  prays  for — for 
what  one  wants  ? 

Sexton  : 

Mais  certainement,  M'sieu.  If  M'sieu  will  pass 
at  the  Chapel,  he  will  see  those  candle  burning 
now.  But,  on  St.  Joseph's  day,  or  on  Good 
Friday,  thass  the  time  !  del !  how  the  eye  is 
dazzle'  with  those  candle  on  St.  Joseph's  day ! 

Leslie  : 

Ah,  I'll  take  some  candles  then,  for  custom's 
sake. 

17 


A  CHRISTMAS   MASQUE   OF   ST.  ROCH. 

Sexton  : 
How  many,  M'sieu  ? 

Leslie  : 

Fifty  (the  sexton  stares}.  Oh,  I  meant  twenty- 
five  (hurriedly  reddening).  Give  me  the  usual 
number.  (The  sexton  gives  him  three  candles 
in  fiat  candle-sticks.  He  holds  these  awkwardly 
as  he  passes  on.) 

A  Sewing    Woman,   very  shabbily  dressed: 

Two  candles,  sexton,  if  you  please.  (She 
passes  on.) 

Beggar-woman  follows  her  whining: 
Charite",  Madame,  Charit£  ! 

A  Ragged  Lad: 

I  don't  want  no  candles,  Mister.  I'm  goin' 
to  set  a  minit  on  one  o'  them  tombstones 
yonder.  (He  passes  on.) 

18 


A   CHRISTMAS    MASQUE   OF    ST.  ROCH. 

Child,  shouting: 

Sand !  Sand !  Here's  your  nice  sand  to 
sprinkle  on  your  graves !  Your  nice  fresh 
sand  ! 

A  Man  with  a  spade  on  his  shoulder,  sullenly  : 
I  s'pose  I've  got  to  dig  the  grave.    It's  hard 

a  man  can't  spend  his  Christmas  Day  in  peace. 

Why  must  the  woman,  devil  take   her !  die  on 

Christmas  eve  ?     (He  passes  on.) 

Sexton,   solus: 

Poor  soul,  to  die  on  Christmas  eve  when  all 
the  world  is  joyous  and  alive !  Here's  my 
last  candle.  It  shall  burn  for  her  that  she 
may  rest  in  peace. 


A  CHRISTMAS   MASQUE   OF   ST.  ROCH. 
III. 

NOON.       WITHIN    THE    CHAPEL. 

Many  candles  burning  about  the  foot  of  the 
altar.  The  wooden  effigy  of  St.  Roch  and  his 
dog  above.  People  kneeling.  The  wails  are 
hung  with  votive  offerings. 

Denise  Durand,  after  her  prayer,  watching 
her  candles: 

Now,  if  the  third  candle  from  the  end  —  the 
one  that  flares  and  flames  as  if  an  unseen 
spirit  blew  upon  it — if  that  candle  should 
burn  out  soonest,  then  I'll  take  it  for  a  sign 
he  did  not  mean  the  cruel  things  he  said. 
But  if  the  fifth  one  soonest  sinks,  why  then 
I'll  know  he  does  not  love  me  any  more ! 

The  Sewing  Woman,  after  her  prayer,  watch 
ing  her  candles: 

How  fast  they  burn  !  And  yet,  before  the 
flames  into  the  sockets  sink  and  die,  all  will 


A  CHRISTMAS   MASQUE   OF   ST.  ROCH. 

be  ended  for  the  child  and  me.  One  leap 
into  the  River,  one  cry  from  those  dear  baby- 
lips  when  over  us  close  the  turbid  yellow 
waves,  and  then  —  no  more  fierce  longings 
for  the  past,  no  shrinking  from  the  future,  no 
hunger  more,  nor  cold,  nor  hard-eyed  scorn 
for  me  or  my  child. 

The  Blind  Man  : 

A  cheating  saint,  a  greedy  glutton  saint !  He'll 
never  make  me  see,  no  not  unless  I  burn  a 
dozen  candles  to  his  wooden  nose.  But  I'll  not, 
that's  flat. 

Leslie,  putting  down  his  candles: 
If  those  fellows  at    the  Club  could  see  me 
now !     Well,  let  them  laugh,  I  care  not,  I     .     . 
.     .     The  good  saint,  wooden  as  he  looks, 
knows  what  /  want.     I'll  leave  my  candles  and 
my  wishes  in  his  care.     (He  goes  out.} 

The  Mother,  after  her  prayer,  watching  her 
crippled  child: 

I   think  he's  paler  than  he  was !     My  little 

21 


A  CHRISTMAS   MASQUE   OF   ST.  ROCH. 

braveling,  art  thou  cold  ?  Lean  close  to 
mother,  little  one,  and  make  thy  prayer,  thy 
self,  to  Jesus  that  He  may  heal  thee  on  thy 

birthday,  and  on  His Oh   God,  my 

boy!  my  boy !  he's  dead!  Help!  Help! 

The  Other   Child,  frightened: 
And  can  my  brother  run  ? 

The  Mother,  wildly: 

Oh,    he    has    wings   now,    he   can    fly!      Oh 
God,  my  child ! 

Child  Outside  shouting: 

Sand  !   here's  your  nice  clean  sand  to  strew 
upon  your  graves ! 


22 


A   CHRISTMAS   MASQUE   OF   ST.  ROCH. 


IV. 

MID-AFTERNOON.       BY    THE    SUN    DIAL. 

In  the  burying-ground  by  the  chapel :  many 
tombs  about ;  a  few  people  walking  among  the 
graves.  A  Sun  Dial  near  the  main  footway. 

The  Cynic,  reading  the  inscription  on  the.  dial  : 
"  I  number  but  the  shining  hours."  Well, 
precious  little  work  you've  got  to  do,  you 
hoary,  moss-grown  dial,  that's  all  I  have  to 
say.  The  shining  hours  in  this  world  are  as 
scarce  as  honesty  in  man,  or  truth  and  chas 
tity  in  woman.  Yet  once  I  also  thought  — 
pshaw,  no  matter  what  I  thought !  (Sits  down 
on  a  flat  tombstone  near  the  dial?) 

Leslie  comes  oiit  of  the  chapel  and  leans  on  the 

dial. 

Leslie  : 

"  I  number  but  the  shining  hours."  Ah,  those 
were  shining  hours  indeed,  when  —  Lord,  what 
a  fool  a  man  can  be ! 


A  CHRISTMAS   MASQUE   OF   ST.  ROCH. 

Cynic  : 

A  very  just  observation  indeed,  ray  friend. 
But  add,  if  men  are  fools,  women  in  truth 
are  worse  than  knaves,  and  so  — 

Leslie,  angrily: 
Sir,  by  what  right — ? 

Denise,  who  has  approached  unperceived,  from 
the  chapel: 

Why,  Gordon — Mr.  Leslie! 

Leslie : 
Denise  —  Miss  Durand  !     You  here  ? 

Denise,  smiling  a  little  : 
Mr.  Leslie — you  here? 

Leslie  : 

Denise,    forgive    me !     When   I    twitted   you 

about  your  superstitions — your  leaden  Virgins 

and  your  small  St.  Josephs  standing  on  their 

heads  and  —  well — your    wonderful     St.    Roch 

24 


A  CHRISTMAS   MASQUE   OF   ST.  ROCH. 

upon  his  altar  here  ;  and  these  same  twittings 
led  us  on  from  sneer  to  counter-sneer,  until 
we  quarreled  — 

Denise,  interrupting  : 
Then,  you'll  admit  now — ? 

Leslie,  dubiously : 
Oh,  as  to  that  — 

Cynic,  under  his  breath: 
Soho!  the  smothered  fire   breaks   out  again. 
Fools !      Well    let    it   scorch    them    both,    aye 
shrivel  them  to  cinders ! 

Denise  : 

Nay,  Gordon  let  it  pass.  1  will  believe  for 
both  of  us.  But  (curiously)  what  are  you  do 
ing  here  ? 

Leslie,  sheepishly: 

To  tell  the  truth  Denise,  I've  got  three 
candles  by  the  altar,  there,  alight — and  all  for 
you  —  that  I  might  win  you  back  again. 

25 


A   CHRISTMAS   MASQUE   OF   ST.  ROCH. 

Denise  with  rapture: 

Oh  Gordon!  And  I  have  ten  alight — and 
all  for  you. 

Leslie,  tenderly : 
Spendthrift! 

Beggar-woman,  approaching  : 
Charite",  M'sieu  !      Charite",  Ma'mselle  !      . 
Merci,  M'sieu  et  Madame  la  Marine !    (S/ie  goes 
away  rattling  Gordon's  alms  in  a  tin  box?) 

Gordon,  looking  after  her : 
\  prophetess,  Denise,  a  prophetess  ! 

The  Sewing  Woman  comes  out  of  the  chapel 
walking  hurriedly.  The  Cynic  springing  to  his 
feet  at  sight  of  her  : 

Margaret ! 

Sewing   Woman  : 
Philip ! 

Philip,   sneeringly,   reseating  himself: 
I  find  you   somewhat  shabby,   Madam,  con 
sidering— 

26 


A  CHRISTMAS   MASQUE   OF   ST.  ROCH. 

Margaret,  interrupting  fiercely: 
Considering  that  night  and   day  I  drive  the 
needle  to  ward  off  starvation  from  my  child  — 

and  yours ! 

Philip: 

Ha,  Colburn's  money  then  is  spent.  Or  stay, 
the  story's  old  and  threadbare,  Madam,  but  'tis 
short-— and  true.  Will  you  hear  it?  The 
friend,  we'll  say,  beguiles  his  friend's  wife 
from  her  home ;  then,  wearying  of  her,  caste 
her  off.  That's  all.  Oh,  shame  on  him — a 
friend  ;  on  you  —  a  wife! 

Margaret,  bewildered: 

Colburn  .  .  .  beguiles  ?  Philip,  what 
do  you  mean  ? 

Philip: 

God  !  She  dares  to  ask  me  what  I  mean  \ 
My  home  left  desolate  ....  the  man  I 
trusted  ....  my  wife  and  child 

Margaret,  passionately  : 

Who  left  it  desolate,  your  home  and  mine  ? 
Did  I  not  wait  there  long  and  weary  months 

27 


A  CHRISTMAS   MASQUE   OF   ST.  ROCH. 

for  your  return  ?  For  you,  who  left  me  to  be 
gone  a  single  day !  No  word  to  tell  me  why 
you  had  abandoned  wife  and  child ;  no  tidings 
save  one  cruel  line  to  say  that  we  were  hence 
forth  naught  to  you — your  wife  and  child! 
And  then  I  traced  you  step  by  step  until  I 
found  you  here,  where  for  many  weary  months 
—too  proud  to  beg  your  charity  —  I  have 
fought  hunger  and  despair — not  for  my  own 
sake,  but  our  child's. 

Philip,  trembling  : 

But  the    letter   which  you    wrote     .... 
which  said  that  you  and  Colburn  — 

Margaret,  turning  coldly  away: 

I  know  nothing  of  such  a  letter ;  nor  have  I 
seen  George  Colburn  since  he  left  the  house 
with  you.  The  letters  I  have  written  you  have 
come  back  to  me — unopened.  Oh  shame  on 
you,  Philip,  shame  on  the  father  of  my  child  ! 
28 


A  CHRISTMAS   MASQUE   OF   ST.  ROCH. 

Leslie,  interposing  courteously: 
I  beg  your  pardon  sir.  Do  you  speak  of 
George  Colburn  of  The  Cedars.  George  Col- 
burn,  who  exposed  the  other  day  that  villain 
and  arch  traitor,  Allan  Carr  ?  I  chance  to 
know  — 

Philip,  suddenly  enlightened: 
Allan  Carr !  why  I  remember  now  't  was  he 
who  brought  me  news  of  Margaret's  flight  with 
Colburn  —  and  her  letter.  He  who  ...» 
God  forgive  me  for  a  dupe,  a  fool,  a  brute,  an 
idiot !  Margaret — ! 

Margaret,  upon  his  breast  sobbing : 
Oh,  Philip  ! 

The  Sexton  comes  out  of  the  chapel  with  the 
dead  body  of  the  little  cripple  in  his  arms. 
The  mother  follows,  mute  and  anguished. 

The  Other  Child,  querulously: 
But  why  does  not  my  brother  fly  if  he  has 
wings  ?     You  said  he  had  wings,  Mother.     If  I 
29 


A  CHRISTMAS   MASQUE   OF  ST.   ROCH. 

had  wings  I'd  fly  to  the  top  of  yonder  willow 
tree.     (They  pass  on  to  the  gate.} 

The  Blind  Man  comes  out  of  the  chape/.  Leslie 
and  Philip  drop  some  coins  into  his  hat. 

.  The  Blind  Man : 

Lord  bless  you,  gentlemen  !  I'd  liefer  hear 
the  silver  tinkling  in  my  hat,  and  feel  the 
smooth  round  quarters  twixt  my  thumb  and 
finger,  any  day,  than  see  !  Now  fetch  me  home, 
boy.  (He  passes  on  to  the  gate.} 

The  Ragged  Lad,  jumping  up  -with  a  half-sob 
from  the  ground  where  he  has  been  lying: 

I  wisht  I  hadn't  run  away  from  home.  'Taint 
no  fun,  nohow.  I'm  goin'  back.  I  w-want  to 
see  my  m-mother!  (He  passes  on  to  the  gate.) 

Child,  shouting: 

Here's  your  fresh  sand!  Here's  your  last 
chance  to  buy  some  nice  fresh  sand! 


A  CHRISTMAS   MASQUE   OF   ST.   KOCH. 

One-legged    Negro,    in    the   distance,    shouting 
lustily  : 

I'm  gvvine  home  ter  give  dem  sebenteen  chil- 
len  an'  gran'chillen  dey  Chris'mus  tu'key ! 

Ragged  Little  Girl  in  the  distance,  crooning  to 
her  baby -sister  : 

"  Fais  dodo,  Minette  ! 
Trois  p'ti  cochons  de  lait 
Endormez-moi  cette  enfant 
Jusqu'  a  1'age  de  quinze  ans ! 
Quand  quinze  ans  sera  sonne, 
Nous  irons  la  marier 
Avec  joli  'ti  Tintin, 
P'ti  fils  de  not'  voisin. 
Fais  dodo,  Minette 
Do  — do." 

Margaret: 

Come,   Philip,    let    us    hasten    to   our    child. 
{  They  pass  on,  arm  in  arm,  to  the  gate.} 

Denise,  reading  the  inscription  on  the  dial: 
"I    number   but    the   shining  hours."      Nay, 
Gordon,  all  the  hours  are  shining!     (They  pass 

an,  arm  in  arm,  to  the  gate.) 
3i 


A  CHRISTMAS   MASQUE   OF   ST.  ROCH. 


V. 

NIGHT. 

The  Bell,  from  its  ivied  niche : 
Christ  is  born,  is  born! 
A  yellow  rim — the  afterglow  of  day — 
Belts  in  the  earth,  as  if  a  token-ring 
Of  God  were  slipped  about  it  for  a  sign 
Of  peace  and  love.     So  belted,  blessed  Earth, 
Move  on  among  the  spheres,  and  add   thy  note 
Of  joy  to  theirs  because  The  Child  is  born! 

Chorus  of  Dead  People  : 
Sweet  is  our  rest  beneath  the  grassy  sod! 
Secure  our  niches  in  the  arching  vaults, 
Where  Pain  nor  Sorrow  may  pursue  us  more. 

Semi-chorus  of  Dead  Children  : 
We  do  not  care  to  walk.     Our  little  feet 
Are  safe  from  all  the  thorny  ways  of  life. 
32 


A  CHRISTMAS   MASQUE   OF   ST.  ROCH. 

The  Baby  in  the  grave  by  the  Chapel  : 
But  I'm  afeard! 

The  Woman  who  died  on  Christmas  Eve  : 

Is  that  a  baby's  voice? 
Mine  arms  do  yearn  for  one  I  left  behind! 
— I'm  coming,  little  one;  be  not  afraid! 

Chorus : 
'Tis  sweet  to  rest  for  aye  beneath  the  stones! 

The  effigy  of  St.  Roch  in  the  Chapel : 
Christ  is  born,  is  born! 

(Dreamily).     How  soft  the  stars  that  shone  on 
Languedoc! 

And  so  those  bold  Venetians  stole 

my  bones 

And  from  Montpelier,  in  a  time  of  plague, 
Bore  them  away  to  Venice  by  the  sea. 
And  Doge  and  Senate  welcomed  them  in  state: 
And  Tintoretto  at  San  Rocco  there, 
33 


A  CHRISTMAS   MASQUE  OF   ST.  ROCH. 

Did  paint  such  wonders  that  the  world   stood 

still, 

And  all  for  me,  who  healed  him  of  the  plague! 
— Nay,  God  forgive  me!     If  I  boast,  forgive, 
For  Thou  alone  hast  power  to  heal,  and  Thou 
To  ease  the  wounded  heart;  that  so  the  world 
be  blest! 

A  whisper  from  above  that  thrills  the  air : 
The  world    be  blest! 


PERE  DAGOBERT. 


PERE  DAGOBERT.* 

None  of  your  meagre,  fasting,  wild-eyed,  spare 

Old  friars  was  Father  Dagobert! 

He  paced  the  streets  of  the    Vieux  Carre 

In  seventeen  hundred  and  somewhat,  gay, 

Rubicund,  jovial,  round  and  fat. 

He  wore  a  worldly  three-cornered  hat 

On  his  shaven  pate;  he  had  silken  hose 

To  his  ample  legs;  and  he  tickled  his  nose 

With  snuff  from  a  gold  tabatiere. 

He  listened  with  courtly,  high-bred  air 

To  the  soft-eyed  penitente  who  came — 

Kirtled  lassie,  or  powdered  dame — 

To  kneel  by  the  carved  confessional 

And  breathe  in  a  whisper  musical 

The  deadliest  sin  she  could  recall. 


*See  "Notes,"  page  58. 

37 


85543 


PERE   DAGOBERT. 

La  Nouvelle  Orleans'  self  was  young, 
When  the  Pere  came  over  from  France,  a  strong, 
Handsome,  rollicking  Capuchin  brother, 
Poor  as  a  mouse  of  the  Church,  his  mother, 
With  a  voice  like  an  angel's,  sweet  and  clear. 
That  saints  and  sinners  rejoiced  to  hear. 
The  town  it  had  grown  apace,  and  he 
For  the  goodly  half  of  a  century 
Had  blessed  its  brides  when  the  banns  were  said, 
And  christened  its  babies  and  buried  its  dead; 
He  had  sipped  the  wines  from  its  finest  stores 
As  he  played  at  chess  with  its  Governors; 
And  wherever  a  feast  was  forward,  there 
Was  a  cover  for  Father  Dagobert. 

In  the  midst  of  its  fields  of  indigo 
Where  the  sleek,  black  negroes,  row  on  row, 
Dug  and  delved  for  the  brotherhood, 
The  stately  house  of  the  Order  stood ; 
And  here  at  ease  on  their  fine  estate 
The  Pere  and  his  Capuchins  slept  and  ate, 
And  thrived  and  fattened  for  many  a  year, 
Ungrudged  by  none  of  their  royal  cheer. 
38 


PERE   DAGOBERT. 


II. 

But  over  the  wall  of  this  paradise 
One  day  the  inquisitorial  eyes 
Of  the  Spanish  Padre  Cirilo 
Gazed,  horror-stricken! 

"  Your  Grace  must  know," 
He  wrote  with  haste  to  the  Order's  head, 
"  What  shame  by  our  Order  here  is  spread ; 
An  idle,  battening  set,  they  dwell — 
Unmindful  each  of  his  cord  and  cell — 
In  a  galleried  convent,  tall  and    fair, 
Misgoverned  by  one  named  Dagobert 
(A  bibulous  Frenchman,  gross  and  fat, 
Who  wears  a  graceless  three-cornered  hat, 
And  takes  his  snuff  from  a  jeweled  box). 
They  have  cunningly  carven  singing  clocks 
In  their  refectory;  when  they  dine 
They  drink  the  best  and  the  beadiest  wine; 
They  have  silver  spoons  and  forks — nay,  more, 
39 


PERE   DAGO  BERT. 

They  have  special  spoons  for  the  cafe  noir 
That  clears  their  brains  when  the  feast  is  o'er. 

"This  Dagobert"  (so  the  Padre  said) 
Usurps  the  power  of  the  Church's  Head, 
And  cares  not  a  fig  what  Rome  has  wrought! 
The  Santa  Cruzada  itself  is  naught; 
And  thirty  years  it  hath  been,  in  full, 
Since  Papal  or  Apostolic    Bull 
Hath  reached  his  flock;  but  the  people  fare 
Content  to  follow  the  singing  Pere; 
For  in  truth  he  sings,  and  sings,  alas! 
With  a  seraph's  tongue  at  the  daily  mass." 

Further  he  told  how  this  singing  priest 
Forgot  the  fast  and  shifted  the  feast 
Of  the  Holy  Church  at  his  own  good  will, 
With  the  people  blindly  following  still. 
He  hinted  at  comely  quadroons  a-stare 
With  bold  black  eyes  at  morning  prayer 
In  the  convent  chapel,  or  strolling,  gay, 
Through  the  convent  halls  at  close  of  day. 
4o 


PERE   DAGOBERT. 

"  And    the    rascals    grow    daily    richer!      Your 

Grace" 
(He    groaned)     "  Must    look     to    this   godless 

place, 
And  humble  the  head  of  this  haughty  friar!  " 

His  Grace  was  shocked.     With  a  holy  ire 

He  sped  his  edict  across  the  sea. 

But  a  wrathful  Province  heard  the  decree, 

And  Governer,  Alcalde,  citizen  staid, 

Riffraff,  soldier,  matron  and    maid, 

All  swore  nor  Church,  nor  State  should  dare 

To  rob  them  of  Father  Dagobert! 

So  back  to  Spain  the  Padre  went, 

Humbled  himself,  and  penitent. 

The  Pere,  unruffled,  pursued  his  way, 

Disturbed  nor  vexed  to  his  dying  day; 

And  the  friars  rejoiced  to  their  convent's  core, 

And  slept  and  ate  at  their  ease  once  more. 


PERE    DAGOBERT. 


III. 

Down  in  the  weed-grown  Cimetiere 

St.  Louis  reposes  the  worthy  Pere; 

And  they  say,  when  the  nights  are  warm  and 

sweet, 

And  stayed  is  the  sound  of  passing  feet, 
That  he  clambers  down  from  his  snug  retreat 
In  the  crumbling  vault,  and  up  and  down 
The  narrow  walks,   in  his  fine  serge  gown 
And  three-cornered  hat,  he  makes  his  way, 
And  sings  as  he  goes,  till  the  break  of  day; 
And  the  powdered  dames  of  the  old  regime, 
And   the  pig-tail  courtiers,  all  agleam 
With  jewels  and  orders,  come  thronging  out 
From  tombs  and  vaults — a  shadowy  rout — 
To  sit  a-top  of  the  mouldy    stones 
That  cover  the  common  plebeian  bones, 
And  listen,  all  wrapped  in  a  vapory  mist; 
While  the  hands  they    have    pressed,    the   lips 

they  have  kissed 

42 


FERE   DAGOBERT. 

In  the  olden  days,  grow  warm  again, 
And  the  eyes  whereon  rusty  coins  have  lain 
For  a  hundred  years  and  more,   grow  bright 
With  the  deathless  joys  of  a  long-gone  night. 

— A  bell  in  Don  Almonaster's  tower 
By  the  old  Place  d'Armes  rings  out  the  hour. 
Short  in  his  canticle  stops  the  Pere 
To  cross  himself  and  mutter  a  prayer; 
Then  he  climbs  to  his  chilly  resting-place 
And  pulls  his  cope  up  over  his  face, 
And  folds  his  hands  in  a  patient  way, 
And  rests  himself  through  the  livelong  day. 

The  dames  and  courtiers  slowly  rise, 
Brushing  the  dews  from  their  softened  eyes, 
And  courtesying  grandly  as  they  go, 
They  pass  along  in  a  stately  row; 
They  pause  at  the  door  of  their  family  tombs — 
Glancing  askance  at  the  inner  glooms, 
And  lifting  a  finger  with  slow  demur — 
To  say  with  that  air  of  a  connoisseur 
43 


PERE   DAGOBERT. 

That  greeted  a  Manon,  when  she  and  they 
Trod  the  stage  of  the  vieux  carrc, 
"  Ma  foil  'tis  a  wondrous  thing  and  rare, 
The  singing  of  Father  Dagobert!" 


44 


THROWING   THE   WANGA. 


THROWING   THE   WANGA.* 

ST.  JOHN'S  EVE. 
Shrill  over  dark  blue  Pontchar train 

It  conies  and  goes,  the  weird  refrain^ 
IVanga  !   wanga  ! 

The  trackless  swamp  is  quick  with  cries 
Of  noisome  things  that  dip  and  rise 
On  night-grown  wings ;   and  in  the  deep, 
Dark  pools  the  monstrous  forms  that  sleep 
Inert  by  day  uplift  their  heads. 
The  zela  flwver  its  poison  sheds 
Upon  the  warm  and  languorous  air ; 
The  lak-vine  weaves  its  noxious  snare ; 
The  wide  palmetto  leaves  are  stirred 
By  venomed  breathings,  faintly  heard 
Across  the  still,  star-lighted  night. 


*See  "Notes,"  page  58. 

47 


THROWING   THE  VVANGA. 

Her  lonely  spice-fed  fire,   alight 
Upon  the  black  swamp's  utmost  rim, 
Now  spreads  and  flares,  now  smoulders  dim; 
And  at  her  feet  they  curl  and  break, 
The  dark  blue  waters  of  the  lake. 

Her  arms  are  wild  above  her  head — 
Old  withered  arms,   whose  charm  has  fled. 

"  Zizi,  Creole  Zizi, 
You  is  slim  an'  straight  ez  a  saplin' 

Dat  grows  by  de  bayou's  aidge  ; 
You  is  brown  an'  sleek  ez  a  young  Bob  White 

Whar  hides  in  de  yaller  sedge. 

"Yo'  eyes  is  black  an'  shiny, 

An'  quick  ez  de  lightnin'  flash  ; 
You  wuz  bawn  in  de  time  er  freedom, 

An'  never  is  felt  de  lash. 
— Me,  I  kin  th'ow  wanga  !  " 

Her  dusky  face  is  wracked  and  seamed, 
That  once  like  ebon  marble  gleamed. 
4S 


THROWING   THE  WANGA. 

Zizi,  Creole  Zizi, 
"  You   is  spry  on  yo'  foot  ez  de  jay-bird 

Whar  totes  de  debble  his  san'; 
You  kin  tole  de  buckra  to  yo'  side 

By  de  turnin'  o'  yo'  ban'. 

"  Yo'  ways  is  sweet  ez  de  sugar 

You  puts  in  yo'  pralines. 
When     de    orange     flower    on     de     banquette 

draps, 

An'  de  pistache-nut  is  green. 
-  Me,  I  kin  th'ow  wanga! " 

Her  knotted  shoulders,   brown  and  bare, 
The  deathless  scars  of  slarehood  wear. 

"  Zizi,  Creole  Zizi, 
You  is  crope  lak  a  thieft  to  de  do'-yard 

When  de  moon  wuz  shinin'  high, 
An'  you  stole  de  ole  man'  heart  erway 
Wid  de  laughin'  in  yo'  eye. 
49 


THROWING   THE   WANGA. 

•"  My  ole  man! — de  chillun's  daddy! — 

We  is  hoed  de  cotton  row 
An'  shucked  de  corn-shuck  side  by  side 

Fer  forty  year  an'  mo'! 

— Me,  I  kin  th'ow  wanga!  " 

The  flames  that  leap  about  her  feet 
Burn  with  a  perfume  strange  and  sweet. 

"  Zizi,  Creole  Zizi, 
Twis'  yo'se'f  in  de  coonjine 

Lak  a  moccasin  in  the  slime; 
Twis'  yo'se'f  when  de  fiddle  talks 

Fer  de  las'  endurin'  time. 

Den  was'e  ter  de  bone  in  de  midnight, 
In  de  mawnin'  wa'se  erway; 

Bu'n  wid  heat  in  de  winter-time, 
An'  shiver  de  hottes'  day — 
Wanga!  Wanga! 

"  Onder  yo'  fla'ntin'  tignon 
De  red-hot  beetles  crawl, 

Wid  claws  dat  sco'ch  inter  de  meat 

An'  mek  de  blood  draps  fall! 
50 


THROWING   THE   WANGA. 

"  Over  yo'  bed  de  screech-owl 

In  de  midnight  screech  an'  cry! 
Den  kiver  yo'  head,  Creole  Zizi— 

Den  kiver  yo'  head  an'  die— 
Wanga!  Wanga!  " 

Her  voice  is  hushed,   she  crouches  lou< 

Above  the  embers'  flickering  glow. 

The  swamp-wind  wakes,   and  many  a  thing 

Unnamed  flits  by  on  furry  wing ; 

They  brush  her  cheeks  unfelt;   slie  hears 

The  far-off  songs  of  other  years. 

Her  eyes  grow  tender  as  she  sways 
And  croons  above  the  dying  blaze. 

"  Oh,  de  cabin  at  de  quarter  in  de  old  planta 
tion  days, 
Wid  de  garden  patch  behin'  it  an'  de  gode- 

vine  by  de  do'. 
An'  de  do'-yard  sot  wid    roses,  whar    de    chil- 

lun  runs  and  plays, 

An'    de    streak    o'    sunshine,    yaller    lak,    er- 
slantin'  on  de  flo'! 
51 


THROWING   THE    WANGA. 

"We  wuz  young  an'  lakly  niggers  when  de  ole 

man  fetch  me  home. 
Ole    Mis'    she   gin    de    weddin',    an'    young 

Mis'  she  dress  de  bride! 
He  say   he   gwineter    love  me  twel  de  time  o' 

kingdom  come,  "* 

An'  forty  year  an'    uperds  we  is  trabble  side 
by  side! 

"  But  ole  Mars'  wuz  killed  at  Shiloh,  an'  young 

Mars'  at  Wilderness: 
Ole    Mis'    is    in    de    graveyard,    wid    young 

Mis'  by  her  side, 
An'  all  er  we-all's  fambly  is  scattered    eas'  an' 

wes'. 

An'  de   gode-vine    by  de    cabin    do'    an'    de 
roses  all  has  died! 

"  My  chillun  they  is  scattered  too,  an'  some    is 

onder  groun'. 

Hit  wuz  forty  years  an'    uperds  we    is    trab 
ble,  him  an  me! 


THROWING   THE  WANGA. 

Ole    Mis',  whar    is   de  glory  o'    de    freedom  I 

is  foun'? 
De  ole  man  he  is    lef  me  fer  de    young   eyes 

o'  Zizi!" 

Her  arms  are  ivild  above  her  head, 
The  softness  from  her  voice  has  fled. 

"  Zizi,  Creole  Zizi, 

Twis'  yo'se'f  in  de  coonjine 
Lak  a  moccasin  in  de  slime; 

Kunjur  de  ole  man  \vid  yo'  eye 
Fer  de  las'  endurin'  time! 

"  Den  cry  an'  mo'n   in  de  mawnin', 

In  de  midnight  mo'n  an'  cry, 
Tvvel  de  debble  has  you,  han'  an'  foot, 

Den  stretch  yo'se'f  an'  die! — 
Wanga!  Wanga! 


53 


NOTES. 


NOTES. 
ST.  ROCH. 

ST.  ROCH'S  CHAPEL  :  A  famous  mortuary  shrine 
at  New  Orleans,  much  frequented  by  all  classes  of 
people.  Candles  are  burned  to  ensure  answer  to 
prayer. 

ST.  ROCH  :  A  mediaeval  saint  born  at  Montpelier, 
France  (1395).  He  is  said  to  have  come  into  the 
world  with  a  small  red  cross  on  his  breast.  Died 
(1427).  His  bones  were  stolen  by  the  Venetians 
during  the  plague  of  1485,  and  carried  from  Mont 
pelier  to  Venice. 

St.  Roch  is  invoked  in  time  of  sickness.  He  is 
locally  invested  with  extraordinary  powers  and  sup 
posed  to  be  peculiarly  potent  in  obtaining  husbands 
for  young  women.  St.  Roch  is  always  represented 
in  company  with  his  dog. 

The  beautiful  church  of  San  Rocco  at  Venice, 
decorated  by  Tintoretto  and  his  pupils,  is  dedicated 
to  this  saint. 

Small  images  of  St.  Joseph  are  sold  at  the 
57 


NOTES. 

chapel  of  St.  Roch  for  charms.  Vulgar  supersti 
tion  declares  that  the  saint  is  more  efficacious  if 
stood  upon  his  head. 

PERE   DAGOBERT. 

PERE  DAGOBERT  was  made  Superior  of  the 
French  Capuchins  at  New  Orleans  in  1766.  For 
more  than  fifty  years  he  continued  to  be  the  spiritual 
father  of  the  Louisiana  colonists.  The  story  of  his 
quarrel  with  Father  Cirilo  and  the  Spanish  Capu 
chins  is  amusingly  told  by  Charles  Gayarre"  in  his 
History  of  Louisiana. 

THROWING   THE   WANGA. 

To  throw  the  Wanga :  French,  Jeter  le  \Vanga  .- 
to  cast  the  Vodoo  spell. 


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